


Confusion

by mrjengablock



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Cauldron Cup Season Three, Comedy, Confusion, Gen, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 00:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18789466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrjengablock/pseuds/mrjengablock
Summary: Snip 02 - Theme: Comedy - Match: Confusion — Lisa, Accord





	Confusion

It was an unfortunate fact of his current circumstances that these proceedings must take place in a subpar environment. Despite his crafting of all the furniture within this office space, there was something slightly off. The pens sat in perfect columns perpendicular to the edge and an exact half-inch apart. They mirrored the small, leather-bound notebook on the other side. The lines of the office flowed out from this central feature, each edge in alignment with one or the other. It was perfectly designed, to the edge of his abilities, but that did not mean that the space was perfect.

The atmosphere and angle of the building itself conspired to place a beam of light diagonally across his desk and the floor. It was a knife in the face of his hard work. There was a reason futile efforts were often compared to “telling the sun not to rise,” although his power might think otherwise, if he were to judge by the elaborate system of mirrors his mind’s eye brought into focus.

This was a reminder of the control wrenched from his grasp; the office was situated downtown, a backup far from the blood and gore that caked the once pristine walls of his former residence. The sun’s angle was a consequence of the time of the meeting—a time he did  _not_  set.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Tattletale had picked this moment in order to shine this light upon all his failures. It would be just like her.

She chose that moment to enter, unannounced and disorderly. He felt the press of the minute hand gliding into place, an assassin’s dagger at his throat.

“Your missive gave the time for this meeting as 4:15, Miss Tattletale,” he spoke without turning. “It is now 4:22.”

“I ran into traffic on the way, what with the barricades and bodies and whatnot.”

Accord gave himself a single moment to indulge in the razor wire garrote his power supplied, watching it slice cleanly through her mouth, precisely at the corners of her lips—it would certainly stop the clunky speech. He forced the image away and turned to face her.

She smiled at him from where she’d flopped into the guest chair, one leg up on the armrest and the other tucked against her. Her lips closed around the end of an impossibly curly, twisting straw tucked into a can. He watched in disbelief—no,  _horror_ —as the sickeningly red liquid made its roundabout way up and around and into her mouth.

Her body, tangled and undisciplined, was nothing to the mess of incoherent loops.

“Please, no beverages in the office,” he informed her. How had she gotten that past his secretary? He filed away plans for her execution later.

“Almost done.”

“No, please-”

“It’s cool,” she said, closing her lips around the straw once more.

As the liquid petered off, a horrible mix of air and liquid produced the absolute most abhorrent sound he’d ever heard. He waited for it to be over.

“Plea-”  _Slirp._

“Tattletale, if you could just-”  _Sleeeerrrp._

“Really, now-”  _slurp._

“Done,” she said, beaming. Her teeth were stained red with the sugary drink. He shuddered in revulsion. “Now, where were we? Ground rules?”

“Yes,” he ground out, turning to face his desk. It wasn’t polite but it also wasn’t polite to mutilate someone with whom one wanted to negotiate. He glanced down to the lines of the desk, seeking solace in their perfection, marred though they were.

“Well, the Undersiders have Brockton Bay under their thumb, and we’d like it to stay that way. We’d get a take on any profits, 30 or 40 percent, thereabouts.”

“That eats into the margin quite a bit,” he said. Something was off, and it wasn’t just her grammar.

“Take it or leave it. We have to maintain our operations, and the more villains move in, the less control we have.”

The third pen on the left was askew.

He reached down to right it, robotically. Had her very presence produced enough chaotic energy to affect his order from five feet away?

He whirled on her, clutching the cane with his hidden blade in a steel grip. She was stretching, arms over her head, then she leaned back into the chair with a satisfied grin, catlike. He forced the cane to his side once more, reminding himself of what was in the works. One moment would not bring down 23 years of plans.

“We also have a strict no-killing rule, unless it’s committee approved. And by committee, I mean Skitter and her millions of spiders.”

 _Starting a sentence with a conjunction._  His jaw clicked when he opened it. “I will do my best to abide by  _reasonable_  conditions.”

She smiled again, and he had to turn, lest he end their meeting by very final means.

And  _his pen was out of place_   **again**.

“Looks like that desk is a little wobbly.”

He picked up the pen and slammed it back into place, envisioning the point going through her cornea.

“Is this a nightmare?” He asked himself quietly. “Is this real?”

Tattletale was a wild card. As alike as their abilities seemed on the surface, their methods couldn’t be more different. When Accord sought to bring order to the world, carefully arranging the puppets’ strings, Tattletale brought out the scissors and waited for the right moment to  _snip_.

He took a deep breath.

Deeper.

 _Deeper_.

“Gesundheit.”

He choked.

“We might ask you to  _accordinate_  some wins for us, as well,” she continued.

He gripped the desk and swore he could hear the tortured whine as he dug his nails in to the lacquered finish. Hours of lovely work, wasted. He managed to unclench his teeth long enough to say, “Puns are the lowest form of humor.”

The “R” trailed off in a deep-throated growl. Unacceptable. He had to maintain himself.

“I like ‘em.”

“I will get back to you after consulting with the Ambassadors.” Every word was strangled.

“Cool, cool, cool. Hear from ya soon!” Her padding footsteps followed her retreating voice.

He was alone.

He took a deep breath.

The door opened, and his secretary peeked inside. She was shaking hard, tears causing her makeup to run over her flushed cheeks.

“I- I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry.”

_Not yet, you’re not._

* * *

“Did you get it?” Lisa asked when she was reasonably sure they were clear.

Imp grinned, waggling a disposable camera in front of her face.

“If being a villain doesn’t work out, we have a career in corporate espionage,” Lisa said, voice dry. “Good call with the pen signal, by the way. When’d you get so smart?”

“Pen signal?” Imp asked, her face splitting even wider. “Wha’d’ya mean?”

Lisa smirked.


End file.
